


The Advent of Dawn

by yunmin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief, Introspection, Post-Battle of Yavin, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Star Wars Rebels Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:24:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunmin/pseuds/yunmin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Yavin, Wedge Antilles grieves his lost comrades, finds some new ones, and remembers those who are long gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Advent of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This fic references events from _Princess Leia_ , _Aftermath_ , _The Clone Wars_ and _Star Wars Rebels_ (as well as a degree of speculation on that last one), as well as drawing on a few pieces from the old EU to bulk out the story. I don’t think it’s necessary to have read/seen those to enjoy this, but if you’re trying to remain spoiler-free for any of them, this isn’t the place to be?
> 
> Some day my heart may get over Wedge Antilles, but until then I’m afraid everyone is still lumbered with multiple sprawling fics about him. If you also have too many feelings about him, please feel free to hit me up on tumblr.
> 
> This isn't particularly shippy, but anyone who knows me knows that I would encourage you to read it as such; if Luke/Wedge is not your cup of tea, I think this still works as gen.
> 
> I hope you enjoy~

**i)**

“I don’t want a medal,” Wedge says, three hours after the destruction of the Death Star. He’s sitting in front of every member of Alliance High Command currently on Yavin. “Or any commendations. I don’t—” _deserve them_ is what he means to say, but he falters under the gaze of several superior officers. Who is he to say what he deserves?

He knows as well as anyone else that commendations are an exercise in propaganda. His actions are irrelevant, his achievements meaningless. If giving him a medal and holding a ceremony will improve morale, it will go ahead, regardless of Wedge’s feelings on the matter.

“You saved Luke,” Senator-Princess Leia says, catching Wedge’s self-deprecation. She’s still wearing the same dress she arrived in, and manages to look regal despite everything. But her hair is finally starting to fall from its pins, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She’s exhausted. So is Wedge. “He might have been shot down if it wasn’t for you.”

The one piece of good he managed to do, shooting those TIEs off Luke. She’s right, but Wedge doesn’t want to hear about the one life he saved, not while he can still remember the screams of the twenty-seven lives he didn’t.

“I was just doing my duty,” he insists. “Same as anyone else would have done. It’s just luck that I’m still here instead of someone else.”

Wedge waits for someone to disagree with him. To say that it was a result of his skill, bravery, or courage. They don’t, because they can’t. General Jan Dodonna stares him down, looking upset with the whole situation. Wedge doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s served with the Alliance for three-and-a-half-years, the last year on active duty as a Starfighter pilot having finally gotten over the old injury, but he still feels very young. Unsure of what to say to the old hands who have been fighting since before Wedge was born.

“There will be a ceremony,” Admiral Ackbar says. “However, your participation in it will not be required if that is what you wish, Lieutenant Antilles.”

“It is.”

Dodonna nods in acceptance. “Your service in this battle will be noted, though. And I doubt that those on base will let you forget it. Also—” He pauses, and waits for someone to hand him something. He slides the box across the table, placing it directly in front of Wedge. “This would have been yours within six months regardless. We all considered it prudent to move it up.”

Wedge flips open the box. Inside is a rank pin. Almost identical to his old one, apart from the fact that it has an additional red bar across it. This is the pin of a Senior Lieutenant. He’d only got his Junior Lieutenant-ship eight months ago, in the Battle that had seen his assignment to Red Squadron. Knowing that the promotion was coming anyway does little to soothe the knowledge that Wedge got it off the back of his comrades’ deaths.

“Thank you,” Wedge manages to say, clenching his fist over the box.

“You’ve earned it,” Ackbar replies.

**ii)**

Wedge returns to his quarters and attempts not to cry at the sight of the three unoccupied bunks. All of them meticulously neat, sheets folded with military precision, belongings stashed in the locker trunks. No one had talked about it, but they’d all know that some of them would not be making it back alive. Wedge just hadn’t expected the near total annihilation of his Squadron.

He looks at his own bed, the roughest of the set. He’d been running behind that morning. He considers collapsing into it in exhaustion.

The truth is he’s too wired to sleep. His body is still thrumming from the adrenaline. He could lie down on the bed, but he’d only replay the battle over and over again in his head, debating every shot he fired and whether he could have done anything different. If he could have made a choice that resulted in just one more pilot escaping with their life.

(In the end, it’s irrelevant. He didn’t.)

He decides to put his energy to good use. Nett, Porkins, and Darklighter’s things need to be sorted through. What is useful to the Alliance will be redistributed. If possible, personal effects will be returned to their families, but as things currently stand, that seems unlikely. There are others who could do this task, but Wedge owes it to his fallen comrades to do it himself.

Jek has a holo of his wife and kid on the ledge beside his bunk. Wedge can’t remember their names, but they’ll be in a file somewhere. Nett has a collection of discarded parts scavenged from engineering he was forever tinkering with. Darklighter has a small collection of plants. A desert child, he’d been amazed by the greenery of Yavin IV when he’d arrived. One of the technicians had thought it adorable, and had given him a number of potted plants as gifts.

“What’s that?” a voice comes from the doorway.

Wedge recognises it. Luke Skywalker, the boy responsible for firing the shot that took down the Death Star. He’s looking at the greenery in Wedge’s hands like he’s never seen anything like it in his life.

“Uh—” Wedge looks down. “I think it’s _Croivus Pella_? It belonged to Darklighter. One of the technicians gave it to him, we could ask her…” Wedge trails off. Luke was a desert kid too. Maybe he didn’t understand the concept of potted planets, just like Darklighter hadn’t. But he looks up and Luke’s face has gone from curious to grief-stricken. The plant is the last thing on his mind. “Is there a reason you’re here?” Wedge enquires.

“I couldn’t find you,” Luke says. “Everyone’s celebrating out in the hangar. Han broke out his stash of alcohol, one of the engineers produced some bottles from a still, and everyone’s so happy that we beat that thing. Even the Princess came down for a bit. They say there’s going to be a medal ceremony tomorrow. But I looked around and I couldn’t find you and I thought if anyone knows what it felt like—”

Luke’s stumbling over his words, but Wedge isn’t sure if it’s because of the drink or because of grief. Neither are good. “Do you have anywhere to sleep?” Wedge asks. He’s not aware of Luke being assigned a bunk in the pilots quarters, but it’s possible that Leia had sorted some other arrangement for the boy she’d taken under her wing.

“I’ve got a bunk on the Falcon,” Luke replies.

Wedge shakes his head. He’s seen the bucket of bolts Solo calls a ship, so out-dated it’s a wonder it’s still flying, even if it did save all their lives. “That ship might fly, but no Corellian ship is made with a good night’s sleep in mind. Especially not one that old. Trust me. You’ll be more comfortable here.” He starts moving the stuff he was sorting off Biggs’s bunk. “It’s yours, if you want it. I’ve got the one above. Or there’s the ones across, those are empty too,” he tacks on when he realises that Luke might want some space, even if Wedge is loathe to let the boy out of his sight.

“This is fine,” Luke says, grateful.

Wedge looks at the kid. He’s still wearing his flight gear. Wedge knows he has other clothes – he was still in his desert gear when they were at the briefing – but where those have ended up, goodness knows. Not to worry. Biggs’s stuff will be a little long, Porkins’ a little wide, but Luke and Wedge are a similar size. He can lend Luke something. It’s the least he can do.

**iii)**

“Wedge?”

It’s the middle of the night. Wedge has managed to catch maybe half-an-hour of awful, restless sleep. Luke’s voice, small but cutting through the night, presents a balm.

“Yes?”

He hears the sigh of relief from the boy in the bunk beneath him.

“Just wanted to check you were still there,” Luke says, voice barely above a whisper.

Wedge dangles his hand over the edge of the bunk, reaching down towards Luke. He’s rewarded by a brush of fingers back, then Luke’s hand firmly grasping his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wedge tells him.

**iv)**

The Wookiee who has accompanied Han Solo like a shadow approaches Wedge in the mess the next morning. He sits and roars something that sounds like a question.

“Hold on, wait, I don’t understand Shyriwook,” Wedge says, reaching for his data-pad.

He has basic fluency in a lot of languages, one of the perks of being raised on a refuelling station which was a major through point. But with Kashyyyk under Imperial Control, free Wookiees are a rare sight. There’s never been a reason for him to learn.

“Can you repeat that?” Wedge asks, setting a basic translator program running. It isn’t the most accurate in existence, but with any luck it will be enough to facilitate a conversation.

[ They say you ran with the Phantoms and Fire Birds. Crewmen of Balance Point. ] Chewie says.

Wedge furrows his eyebrows. That doesn’t mean anything to him. The translator must be struggling with the name signs – that must be what they are. Phantoms? He has no idea who that refers to. Or anyone known as Balance Point. But Fire Birds—

“I was with Phoenix Squadron, yes. Only shortly.” With that connection made, he turns back to the rest. “Phantoms – oh, you mean the Spectres. The crew of the Ghost. I knew them too. Not well. If you want to get in contact with them, I don’t know how. They’re elsewhere.”

Chewie roars a disagreement. [ Do you know about Balance Point? ] Wedge shakes his head. He can’t make that connection. [ Pivot Point ] Chewie attempts to rephrase. [ One of the warriors of light. She fought in the war. They say she started this one. ]

Wedge scowls at the translator program. It’s doing him a fat lot of good. But then he remembers. “You’re talking about Fulcrum. The original Fulcrum. Ahsoka Tano.”

Chewie roars agreement and Wedge breathes a sigh of relief at finally having understood.

Then his face darkens. “I don’t know what I can tell you. She vanished years ago. Before I joined the Rebellion. I saw her – or someone I thought was her – after she was reported missing, but I’m not sure. There are rumours of her survival, but none of them are considered credible. I don’t— I knew a Fulcrum,” Wedge says. “One of many, I’m given to understand. It could be that she’s still among that number. I’m not the one to ask.”

He looks up at Chewie’s mournful face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Did you know her?”

Wedge doesn’t need to look at the translator to know that the long mournful sound that escapes the Wookiee’s mouth is a yes.

**v)**

Leia Organa stalks through the hangar bay like a woman on a mission. Wedge, supervising a handful of the pilots who have arrived from other bases to aid the evacuation, stops her in her tracks.

“Senator,” he says, knowing that Leia prefers the title she earned to the one she was given. Though, with the dissolution of the Imperial Senate, he’s going to have to find something else. “Leia,” he says, though it’s uneasy on his tongue. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Find that blasted Corellian smuggler and his walking carpet, for a start!” She curses under her breath, looking around the hangar for any sign of Solo. Everyone in the hangar has stopped, surreptitiously staring at her. Treating her like a spectacle rather than a human being.

Wedge pulls Leia aside. She’s in full finery, not the practical gear he’s seen her wear on bases in the past. Her hair is pulled into a long straight braid, dangling all the way down her back. No wonder she’s drawing attention. He doesn’t know her well, but having met her in the past he has the privilege of understanding she’s a person, not some ornamental figure to be used for Alliance morale. “I saw Chewie this morning in the mess. I think he’s had run ins with the Rebellion in the past, he knows far more than he should.” Leia’s face flickers with surprise but she covers it quickly. “I imagine Han’s working on the Falcon. I take it they’re running later for the ceremony?” he asks.

“They will be if I don’t find them soon.”

“He’ll show. He seems to have a knack of turning up in the nick of time.”

It’s almost a joke, and they both almost smile, but it cuts too close for both of them. “I suppose he does,” Leia agrees. “Are you sure you don’t want to participate? You deserve it as much as they do.”

Wedge shakes his head. He’s made his disagreement with that idea clear. “There’s work that needs to be done. I’m worth more here than on a dais as a propaganda piece.”

“I wish some of us had that option,” Leia says, sighing. Wedge starts to stammer out an apology – he hadn’t realised that was exactly what she was doing. “No matter,” she says, cutting Wedge off. She steps away, searching out the Falcon’s body amongst the smaller starfighters, but then turns back to Wedge, her eyes fixing on the new ranks pinned to his chest. “Congratulations on the promotion, Wedge. I always thought you’d go far.”

“Thank you,” Wedge replies, a little surprised. He hadn’t known that he’d caught her attention at all.

Later, Wedge hears rumours of the bounty that has been placed on Leia’s head. Ten million credits. Leia will have to wait to be useful, for there is no way command – half of them Alderaanian, most having known Leia personally since she was a small girl – will let her out while it stands.

**vi)**

“I cant believe Leia just did that!” Luke jumps from his X-Wing. His words could be taken for frustration, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

“Trick us? Verlaine’s idea, almost certainly,” Wedge responds, slightly bemused. He hadn’t expected the trick, but now he’s had time to think it makes perfect sense.

“Still,” Luke sighs. “I wish she hadn’t run off like that. We could have helped. She’s got this huge bounty on her head, and it’s not a very safe galaxy.”

Wedge quirks his lips. “She’s very capable of taking care of herself. You should hear about some of the trouble she’s got into over the years.”

Luke looks up, intrigued. “Like what?” he asks.

Wedge shrugs, beckoning to his astromech. His ship needs to be prepped for launch, in case Verlaine’s stunt has brought unwanted visitors down on their heads. “You’d be best off asking her. I mean, she’s been an active rebel agent for years under the Emperor’s nose, kicked up a massive fuss in the senate, appropriated resources for the Alliance from Imperial budgets. Dealt with smugglers and guerrillas and soldiers alike. I heard a tale of her getting captured on Lothal some years ago, passing on some ships to the Rebellion.”

“I just—” Luke pauses for a moment, unsure of the words. “I know that she’s capable. I just wish she didn’t think she had to do everything on her own.”

“Verlaine’s with her,” Wedge points out. “And Artoo. Those are as safe as hands as our own.”

Luke nods.

“Best thing you can do is to keep doing what you were doing, and be ready to jump in case she comms for help,” Wedge suggests. Luke brightens at the idea, and goes back to fiddling with his X-Wing. Thoroughly engrossed in it. Which is good, because it seems that no one has told Luke that there is a fairly large bounty on his own head, as the pilot who fired the shot that killed the Death Star. The longer Wedge can keep Luke in his sight, the better.

**vii)**

“They tell me you’re Corellian,” Solo says when Wedge wanders over to the Falcon to see if the ship is anywhere near ready for evacuation. Han is busy fixing something, Chewie surveying and handing tools when asked.

“My parents had a refuelling station on Gus Treta,” Wedge replies, letting the distinctive Corellian twang that he’s never eradicated from his accent rise up. It’s just about present in Solo’s accent as well, though his is worn down and blurred by hints of dozens of others. Clearly a man who has been away from Corellia for a long time.

(The accent is near impossible to completely shake. A gift from Corellia to her children, bounding them together in an eternal bond of brotherhood before she loses them to the stars.)

“Cool,” Solo says with a shrug. “You should have come to the celebration last night; I passed a bottle of Whyren’s Reserve around but no one seemed to appreciate it properly.”

“Apologies.” Wedge has never really been much for drinking. He’d drowned his sorrows once, on the anniversary of his parents’ deaths, only to have Mirax pull him out the Cantina and ask if that was any way to honour their memory. “Just tell me I didn’t miss out on Ryshcate, and we’ll be fine.”

“Sorry to say—” Han starts. Wedge’s eyes go wide and he momentarily regrets not turning up to the celebration. Then Han smiles, wide. “Nahh, I’m just kidding. Don’t have the ingredients, and wouldn’t really know where to begin. I haven’t had any in an age.”

“My friend Mirax, she makes great Ryshcate. Manages to smuggle me care packages on occasion, though she’s pretty busy running things now that her father’s been sent to Kessel.” It’s been an age since Wedge spoke to her. He should probably get in touch and confirm that he’s still alive: if she’s heard news of the Death Star attack casualties, she’s likely to be worried.

“Oh kriffing hells—” Han gives Wedge a strange look. “You’re Booster Terrik’s boy, aren’t you?”

“He’s not my father, and I’m not a boy,” Wedge replies, drawing himself up. He’s never going to be Han’s height, or have his swagger, but he’s still a man who’s survived battle after battle. “But yes.”

Wedge has run into enough smugglers over the years to know that he is considered under Booster Terrik’s protection. It had gotten him out of a scrape or two in his time. But there are days when he wishes that the galaxy didn’t consider him Booster’s son, and let him be Jagged and Zena’s boy once again.

Then he remembers how young he way, and all he’s seen since then, and knows that he couldn’t be.

Han laugh and claps Wedge on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “Better you than me, Wedge.”

**viii)**

There are many tasks dreaded by those in the Rebellion.

None inspire such anguish as the task of delivering Death Notifications.

The ones for the pilots are usually written by their squadron leaders, and occasionally command may add a line or two if it’s deemed appropriate. But the squadron leaders are dead. Wedge knows that Leia Organa has claimed the task of writing to the families; one of the few tasks she’s managed to claw from command, who are still treating her like a child. She considers it her duty, and Wedge will let her have it gladly. He has no wish to tell anyone that their loved ones are dead.

However, Leia is no pilot, and understand little of the pilots’ creed.

(Never leave a man behind; always have each other’s backs; celebrate the dead; live each day as if it your last.)

There is no official Alliance policy about contacting the friends of the dead, but Wedge does it anyway. He tells stories of bravery and dedication and service to friends and former colleagues alike. One day those stories will become legends, tales of the heroes who gave their lives to stop the greatest evil the universe had known.

For now, they are just shared remembrances between grieving friends.

Wedge saves the most difficult call to last. It’s to a man he has no words for: the pilot from the Tierfon Yellow Aces who was supposed to fly with them, but didn’t. Porkins had been a last minute replacement.

He places the call and in the back of his mind hopes that no one picks up. But a picture snaps into place, revealing a gaunt man lying in a hospital bed. That was right. He’d become ill with some virus. Wedge can’t remember what.

“Officer Janson,” Wedge says. “Wes,” he adds, trying to be friendly. “I’m Lieutenant Wedge Antilles. I flew with Red Squadron in the Battle of Yavin.”

“I know who you are,” Wes replies. There’s a scowl on his features that doesn’t suit them at all: his face is built for laughter. “If this is about Jek, I’ve heard that he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s a statement that is completely inadequate, but Wedge doesn’t know what else to say. For Jek to still be alive, Janson would likely be dead in his place. There’s nothing that Wedge can say to a man who knows he should have died: Janson will bear the survivors guilt of this battle just as keenly as Wedge will, despite not having fought in it. “He helped destroy a weapon that could have annihilated the galaxy. There are a lot of people alive today because of what he did.”

“I don’t need your pity, Antilles. I know what our job involves. I know the sacrifices we make and the good they do. I’ve heard the spiel before.”

Wedge knows that. He’s just trying – hell, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Grasping desperately for some part of a new reality, and hoping someone else has the answers Wedge can’t find.

“Have you got anything else to say?” Wes asks.

“No,” Wedge admits

The holocall is terminated, and Wedge sinks his head into his arms.

**ix)**

Wedge finds Luke searching through Biggs’s things that evening. Everything that had been separated out into boxes is now tumbled out askance on his bunk. For a moment, Wedge is full of rage, intent on asking Luke what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Then he catches the expression on Luke’s face as the boy looks at a holo of Biggs and a fellow pilot, both of them laughing, and all the pieces slot into place. “You knew him,” Wedge says, taking a seat beside Luke.

“Yeah,” Luke replies, voice catching. “He was my best friend, on Tatooine. I didn’t know he was here until just before we went up. I was going to tell him everything, but then—”

Wedge puts a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says. “He was a good man.”

Luke nods. His fingers a dancing a gentle pattern across his thigh, and he seems to be summoning up the courage to speak. Finally, gripping a crease in his trouser leg, he does so. “My aunt and uncle died on Tatooine. They were murdered by Stormtroopers who were looking for Artoo. And then Ben—” He hesitates for a moment. “My mentor, I guess, he was killed on the Death Star. And then I saw Biggs and it was like – finally, there was this one piece of home I hadn’t lost, and then I lose him too.”

Any one of those things would send most people into a tail spin. For Luke, they’ve all happened in quick succession. Wedge has lost his parents, and lost friends, but he’s never lost quite so much at once. His heart breaks for the boy. “I’m sorry,” Wedge repeats, because he can’t find the words here any better than he did with Wes. There are no platitudes he can offer.

He hears Luke’s breath hitch and knows there is one thing he can do. He pulls the other man in close, guiding Luke’s head in to rest on his shoulder. There are tears, hot and wet against the crook of Wedge’s neck, and hands that clutch at his shirt. Luke attaches himself to Wedge like a drowning man clings to a lifebelt, and Wedge holds on as tight as he can manage.

Later, when Luke has detached himself from Wedge's side and has managed to regain his composure, Wedge gets a better look at the holo, and recognition dawns. “You know,” he says to Luke. “The other pilot in this holo is still alive. They could tell you more about Biggs than I can.”

The twitch of Luke’s lips into a smile brings joy to Wedge’s heart.

**x)**

The evacuation of Yavin is almost complete when Luke walks into the hangar, lightsaber hanging from his belt.

“Of course,” Wedge mutters. “That explains so much.”

Like how he made the shot even without his targeting computer, for one. Luke appears oblivious about the weight of the weapon he wears, wandering over to perform the final checks on his X-Wing before they escort the last transport out.

“You’ll want to be careful where you wear that thing,” Wedge tells him, nodding in the lightsaber’s direction.

Luke looks up with furrowed eyebrows. “Why?”

Wedge resists the urge to smack a hand to his forehead. It’s not Luke’s fault that he grew up on a desert planet, shielded from the realities of the world. “If the Empire catches you with it, it’s a death sentence. Don’t you know that?”

“Ben just told me it was my father’s weapon. The weapon of a Jedi Knight.” Luke shrugs his shoulders. “I know the Jedi are gone now, but this is my legacy.”

There’s that name again – Ben, this mysterious mentor of Luke’s. Whoever they were, they were a fool to saddle Luke with this legacy and not tell him what it meant. “The Jedi were slaughtered by the Empire. All of them, save for a handful who managed to escape. But the Empire keeps tracking them down.” Wedge takes a deep breath. “You aren’t the first person to walk into an Alliance Hangar with a lightsaber on their belt.”

Luke’s eyes go wide. “There are others? When Ben died, I thought I might be—”

“Luke, I’m sorry,” Wedge says, knowing he’s about to break Luke’s heart again. “They’re all gone. Ahsoka Tano vanished years ago. There have been unconfirmed sightings, but she’s assumed dead. The only person who might have known otherwise is Bail Organa, and he died with Alderaan. And whatever happened to Kanan Jarrus and Ezra Bridger is classified so far above my paygrade. But the rumour is they’re missing, along with the rest of the Ghost Crew. You’d have to ask High Command for more. I don’t know anything, really…”

Luke looks downcast. Wedge slinks down, leaning back against a crate and pats the space beside him. Luke sits. “You seem to know a fair bit,” Luke says quietly.

Wedge twines his fingers together. He wants to reach out and pull the other boy closer, provide the comfort he’s sure Luke needs, but he’s – he’s already done enough of that in the past days. He’s not sure that he really needs to be doing it now. “I was brought into the Rebellion by one of the Fulcrum agents. And Sabine Wren; she was one of the Ghost Crew, I knew her as well. It was before the Alliance was formerly signed, just as the Rebellion was really getting going. Ahsoka Tano had just gone missing. They’d tell stories about her: she fought in the Clone Wars. Alongside General Kenobi and Anakin Sky—”

Wedge stops. Luke’s breath hitches.

“She fought with your father.” Wedge fills in the blanks; Skywalker isn’t that common a surname. “Luke—”

“I didn’t—” Luke shakes, tapping fingers against his knee in a desperate nervous gesture. “My aunt and uncle told me my father was a freighter pilot. All my life, that’s all I thought he was. And now I find he’s so much more. Ben Kenobi said he fought with my father in the war, so if Ahsoka fought with him she’d have fought with my father.”

“There’s footage,” Wedge says, suddenly remembering. “A couple of old holonet recordings that were salvaged. There in the Alliance’s records. They called him the Hero With No Fear. Got themselves into all sorts of scrapes. And got a lot of people out of them.”

“Dreis said he flew with my father once.”

“He might well have done.” Wedge shrugs. “There are plenty amongst the older crew who remember the wars, who fought alongside Jedi. You should ask around.”

“I will,” Luke replies.

They sit in silence for a few moments longer before Luke pulls himself up onto his feet. He offers Wedge a hand, and Wedge takes it, feeling the rough callouses in unfamiliar places. This boy does not yet bear a pilot’s scars: it won’t take him long to earn them.

A siren wails the final evacuation orders. “Thanks,” Luke says, as he reaches for his helmet. “For everything.”

“It’s not a problem,” Wedge replies. He hesitates over his next words. He doesn’t want to say anything that feels like a goodbye – they’re flying to the new base side by side – but feels a need to say something. “Just—” He thinks back to the first words he’d said to Luke that day. “Keep it safe. Keep yourself safe. Can’t have you dying on me now, can I?”

He means it to be a joke, but it doesn’t come out a one. “Wedge—” Luke starts, but he’s cut off my someone yelling across the hangar for Wedge to get to his ship. “You too,” he says.

Wedge knocks off a hasty salute, then flees from the intensity of Luke’s gaze. He runs through his pre-flight checks in a daze, his astromech beeping at him indignantly as he gets something wrong. Ready to go, he signals to the LSO, who clears him for take-off.

“Goodbye, Yavin,” Wedge mutters. “No offense, but I hope I don’t see you again too soon.”

He flies up above the green canopy, guiding the freighter he and Luke are escorting out through the atmospheric debris and towards the stars. The hyperspace co-ordinates are entered and Wedge punches out into a stream of bright white light, hoping that his next assignment will be a kinder one.

Though, with Skywalker around, it isn't likely to be quiet.


End file.
